


Be Good To Me

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Behavior, Cinnamon Roll Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Humor, Hurt Gearlt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Like literally Hurt, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22405492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “So,” he says quietly, pressing the pad against the wound. “How did this happen?”Geralt grunts. “The forest has a swamp to the west,” his brow furrows slightly, but after the initial sting of antiseptic against his open wound, Geralt relaxes again. “A Kikimora was living out there. Sprung up from the glades and got me in the shoulder.”Jaskier frowns slightly. “It isn’t like you to not see something coming.”“Gods, Jaskier. I’m not invincible.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 967
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	Be Good To Me

It isn’t often when Jaskier flat out refuses to accompany Geralt on a hunt. In the early days of them travelling together, Jaskier insisted on coming only to get the full experience. _Research_ , he would always justify it as. How would he be able to write a number of songs about the exploits of Witchers if he wasn’t there to witness it first-hand? And then, as time went by, Geralt started opening up about what monsters he would face; how he would track and down them, how they behaved, and what damage they could do if nothing was done.

A huntsman sidled up to them in the inn, cloak drenched from the lashing rain. Jaskier remembers the rumble of thunder that made itself known, even over the chatter of patrons inside the tavern. The huntsman wasn’t old by any means; a smattering of grey hairs along his temples, and his face seemed to be as battle-worn as the rest of the men here. But he seemed fit enough to go traipsing through the forests surrounding the town, a forest that added days on to their journey. He spoke to Geralt – or at least, tried to. Jaskier noticed how the Witcher barely removed his eyes from the tankard of ale he had in front of him. Every so often, Geralt would hum.

“It’s bad, Witcher,” the huntsman rasped. Jaskier watches as something turned the man’s eyes red and wet. “We’re a proud people here. We normally look after our own and sort out our own problems. But this is something we’ve never seen before.”

Geralt casted a sideways look. “You’ve seen it then?”

The huntsman’s face shadowed. “Aye.”

The Northern Territories aren’t known as being the warmest, but in the last couple of weeks, a bitterly cold wind has been nipping at anything and anyone it can catch as it travels down from the mountains nearby. Farmers were hauling in their crops, just in case snow falls and their season-long work is ruined. Hearths in inns are lit all day long. When they had arrived at their lodgings for the night, Geralt had picked a booth near an open fire pit in the middle of the tavern. Boar and a mutton leg turned over the flames. Meat was sheared off every couple of hours by one of the innkeep’s daughters. With a meal in front of him and a roaring fire warming his bones, Jaskier knew that the last fucking thing he wanted to do is follow Geralt outside – into rain and cold and mud.

So Jaskier stayed. He played a few songs for the patrons still in the tavern – most of them reluctant to leave the warmth. Every so often, there would be the tell-tale sound of a coin clinking as it was tossed on to his table. Jaskier bowed his head and started another song. He made idle conversation with the innkeep’s family – sons that tended to the fire pit and daughters who walked to each table, offering refills on ale and beer.

As time trudged by, and people gathered in the tavern either retired to their rooms upstairs or braved the torrential rain lashing outside, Jaskier began to worry. Geralt’s hunts could last from a couple of hours to a couple of days. But usually, with the latter, he returns within the day. He needs rest – despite his protests.

Just as he set his lute to one side, the door to the tavern swung open. A spray of rainwater scattered along the floorboards, but before the innkeep could shout to _close the goddamn door and keep the floods out_ , three men stumbled in.

Well, that wasn’t entirely the case.

Two men hauled another body in. Jaskier’s stomach dropped.

And that’s where Jaskier finds himself now.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he grumbles. “Do you know that?”

“You remind me of that every hour of every day,” Geralt winces as the huntsman and his friend try and prop Geralt’s body slightly up on the bed. The Witcher protests as much as he can, yanking his arm out of the huntsman’s grip just as his friend stacks pillows behind Geralt’s back.

All of them are soaked to the bone. Most of it is water. But Jaskier tries not to wince when he sees specks of red dripping on to the floorboards of the room. The huntsman’s hair is stuck to his forehead, but there’s a scratch that runs from his jaw to his cheekbone. Jaskier fishes vials and small clay pots out of Geralt’s bag. “Do you need anything?” Jaskier gestures to his own face.

The huntsman waves his hand. “No lad, I’m alright. I’ll add this scratch to the rest.”

The huntsman’s friend snorts. “And Yara will kill you for it.”

The man grunts. “I’m alive, and that’s the only thing she cares for.”

It takes a while to convince both men to leave. They feel some sort of responsibility to be there, helping in whatever way that they can. But it’s slightly alarming how many times something like this happens: to the point where Jaskier could probably sew Geralt’s wounds with his eyes shut.

When the men leave, Jaskier helps Geralt take his tunic off. When he sees it, he swallows the noise that was about to leave his mouth. It’s a deep cut, right into the meat of his shoulder. And it’s his sword-arm too. Although Geralt will eventually argue that there is no such thing as a _sword-arm_ ; that _both of your arms should be sword-arms, you can’t just rely on one_.

Perched on one side of the bed, Jaskier sets out everything he needs; a bowl of clean water, slightly warmed; plenty of white rags all torn up into strips; a needle and thread; and some vials. He needs to clean the wound out first. And even though Geralt’s eyes are closed, and head is tilted to face the other side of the room, Jaskier knows that it’ll probably hurt. He doesn’t even bother saying it anymore. Geralt will snap his jaw shut and keep his pain to himself.

But still, Jaskier hates it. He wets one of the cloth rags and sets about removing the dirt and grime that managed to get in, presumably from the fight. Jaskier’s ears prick at the change of Geralt’s breathing. “I’m sorry,” he still finds himself saying softly, despite changing the rag and fishing more dirt out of the wound. Picking up one of the vials – a glass one that barely fits into his palm – he spreads the contents out on to another clean rag. “So,” he says quietly, pressing the pad against the wound. “How did this happen?”

Geralt grunts. “The forest has a swamp to the west,” his brow furrows slightly, but after the initial sting of antiseptic against his open wound, Geralt relaxes again. “A Kikimora was living out there. Sprung up from the glades and got me in the shoulder.”

Jaskier frowns slightly. “It isn’t like you to not see something coming.”

“Gods, Jaskier. I’m not invincible.”

He lets the comment go. Geralt is in pain, and Geralt in pain means that he’s more snappy than usual. The Wolf’s teeth are sharper and bared, but they’ll be gone as soon as Jaskier is done. With the wound cleaned out, and looking less red and gnarly now, Jaskier picks up the needle and thread. The innkeeper made sure it sat over a flame for a couple of minutes. The last thing they need right now is Geralt getting an infection. Threading the needle, Jaskier adjusts his seat to get a better look at the wound.

Geralt’s skin is marred with scars. Some of them look worse than others. The faint white lines that Jaskier can only see in the light aren’t bad at all. But he learned that those ones were stitched and treated by healers and priestesses. The ones that stand against his skin, knotted and angry looking, are ones Geralt had to clean and stitch by himself.

His days of doing that are over.

“This might hurt. The cut is deep,” Jaskier mumbles, looking up at the Witcher. Geralt’s eyes meet his. For all the snapping of teeth the Wolf can do, his eyes never change. There’s something soft in them. Jaskier brings the two bits of skin back together, and sets about sewing.

Geralt’s breath slows. As does his heart. Jaskier can feel it underneath his hands. With a quick glance up at the man, he’s relieved to see that unconsciousness hasn’t come to bring the Witcher under. Instead, Geralt’s chin is bowed as he watches Jaskier work. He blinks slowly, like a cat curled on top of a barrel, warming itself in the sun.

Jaskier works in silence. Geralt’s breathing isn’t the only sound in the room. The hearth hisses and crackles nearby, and distantly, Jaskier can hear the innkeep moving around downstairs. He makes a reminder for himself to make sure that the innkeep has extra coin await him when they leave. He knows of too many keepers who would turn away a battered and bloody man, either not wanting the trouble or the staining of sheets and bedding.

When the last stitch is pulled tight, and they rest flat against Geralt’s skin, Jaskier sits back. “You’re still a fucking idiot,” he says simply, gathering everything and taking it to a nearby basin. The rags drenched in blood and swamp water will have to be destroyed. But the vials and bowls can be washed. Jaskier sets them aside for the morning. He dips his hands into the basin, washing dirt and grime and drying blood off of his skin. Some of it cakes underneath his nails, but his days of being completely clean are long behind him.

“How was your night?” Geralt mumbles.

“ _How was my—_ ” Jaskier spins around. “How was _my_ night?”

Geralt nods. “What did you get up to?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, not even bothering to entertain the Witcher with a reply. Instead, he gets ready for bed; putting his doublet and breeches on the back of a wooden chair. His boots are stacked against the foot of the bed. Nearby, Geralt’s armour is drying from its place on the back of another chair.

When he sits down on the edge of the bed, rearranging and fluffing the pillows that haven’t been drenched in rainwater and blood, he stills slightly at the light touch of fingertips against his back.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt is staring at the skin his fingers travel over. “It was strange,” he says. “Not having you there. With me.”

“You had two new friends,” Jaskier replies. “People who would have been much more helpful than me.”

A soft frown creases Geralt’s forehead. “Still didn’t feel right.”

“Obviously an infection has already set in,” Jaskier says, moving to lie down on his side facing Geralt. He places the back of his hand on the other man’s brow. “You never say sweet things like that unless you’re drunk or ill.”

Geralt shakes his head, moving the hand away. The hearth still burns, warming the room and chasing off of the last of the rain chill. The storm that had sat over the town is starting to move away now. All that’s left is the rhythmic pattering of rain against the windows. But the roads will be waterlogged and destroyed, and even thought Roach doesn’t mind trudging through mud up to her hocks, Jaskier’s already cold at the idea; though he doubts that Geralt won’t let him on the mare’s back, at least until the ground hardens again.

He watches Geralt’s eyelids grow heavy, slipping closed every so often. He tries to shake himself awake again, mapping out more of Jaskier’s skin. But the bard catches his hand and holds it between them. “Sleep,” he orders lightly. With his free hand, Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair, pushing still-damp strands away and out of the Witcher’s face.

Geralt hums, something that vibrates through his chest.

Jaskier’s fingers gentle through his hair while sleep washes over him.

**Author's Note:**

> yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com (personal nonsense and ramblings) || agoodgoddamnshot.tumblr.com (writings)
> 
> Kudos & Comments are appreciated!


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